Obsidian
by MaybeRun
Summary: Enlist as a soldier, or scavenge among the ruins of a broken world. These are the choices that remain in order to survive on a war-torn planet. When a high-ranking neutral commander falls behind deep within the Autobot base during an energon raid, Cybertron hangs in the balance, along with the fate of the last truly free people.
1. Chapter 1

In a darkened military hallway, red lights pulsed lethargically- out of sync with the deafening blare of alarm bell. What wasn't wailing sirens and orange-red was sharp bursts of gunfire and streaks of lightening electricity that seemed almost to spring from the blackness without a source. Autobot stun-blasts. A mech could barely hear himself think, much less receive the orders of a commanding officer. Lost in the chaos, a scattering of commandos stumbled frantically after some sign of what to do next.

It was vertigo panic incarnate, and _he_ was supposed to be the one in charge.

_Commander J-26! J-26, what are your orders?_

Jazz was better off than many of his comrades. He had offlined his own audio receptors moments after the droning had begun- a blade to each panel. Damages could be repaired, mistakes made in the heat of desperation would cost lives he couldn't afford to lose at this point of the war. Warm, sticky energon slid down the left half of his visor as he answered the comm.

_This is J-26 to wing A. Wing A, have you cut power to waste receptor 6?_

There was no response. He could see the Autobot soldiers now- firing low-level blasts at his scattered wing-troop as they retreated. _Frag._

_Wing A commander G-13, have you cut power to waste receptor 6?_

_This is G-12 to J-26, Wing commander G-13 has been deactivated. I am acting commander. We have cut power. We are sustaining-_

The comm line fizzled out suddenly and without warning as acting commander G-12 joined his leader. It was unlikely Wing A had survived the mission. There would be no time to mourn until they returned to base- they had better fragging complete the mission after such losses, but the mission was pointless if there were no mechs left at the end of it.

_Second in command J-26 to all surviving wing units, pull back. retreat to the waste processing panel on the corner of hall 4. Exit through exterior panel 43-_

He paused to dodge a plasma blast from a large blue 'bot, retaliating with a terminal slash to the mech's cerebral fuel line.

_-And meet up with cover team D. Return to base from there, do not wait until appointed time. Do you understand?_

A pitifully small chorus of pained _Affirmative'_s chanted back. They should never have signed on for this raid.

_Frag this war,_ Jazz snarled, hefting an energon-drenched corpse off the catwalk- _Friend or enemy, dead was dead and they had might as well be useful_- and used it as a sheild when acid pellets began to hail his way. As the 'bot pressed forwards he was relieved to see a handful of survivors escaping fire. There was no guarantee they'd make it home, but that they had made it this far was grimly heartening.

The hope generated by the fortune of his comrades was enough distraction needed for an enemy pellet to make contact with his knee joint, successfully toppling the silver commando at last.

Burning, paralyzing agony flared up the entire right half of his body.

Acid pellets were vicious in that they had a nasty habit of eating away through layers of armor down to and through a 'tronian's protoform. Worse still would be if it came in contact with liquids contaminants.

Energon was no doubt the lifeblood of Cybertron, but never had it been denied that it had a cruel habit of igniting.

The decision barely required a thought. The entire leg was hacked off at mid-thigh.

_Better to deactivate from sytem drain than explosion._

The agony now no less intense, Jazz struggled to reinitiate a comm line.

_J-26 to Wings A, B, D, K. Return to base NOW. Do not return contact._

_Primus be with you, _he tacked on at the last second, just before wiping all frequencies from his memory core.

And then all was still.

Red lights dimmed. Backup generators kicked in.

He was in a white corridor, surrounded by a spatter paint melee of metal and wetly shining pink and blue. The silence would be incredible if he weren't deaf already.

The second in command was alone, save for the remains of comrades and strangers alike.

He lay on the chassis of a small orange two-wheeler. Not one of his, but similar in frame o one of the younger ones back at base. Maybe they had known each other. Maybe not. Did it matter at this point?

Probably not.

_Systems at 12%. Entering stasis now._

Whatever.

Spots flared over weary yellow optics. The last thing he saw before losing system control was the approach of several grey war builds. They were probably here for the survivors. Yes, a medic was with them. Maybe two? His processor wasn't functioning.

At least he could escape this damn war now, though. That was a plus, despite all else.

And let the unmaker take him, but escape was all he cared for now.

Frag them all.


	2. Chapter 2

Obsidian 2

Jazz onlined fragmentally over the next stretch of time. He shouldn't have, but he had. Perhaps Primus had it in for him. Perhaps deeply ingrained battle protocols were fighting with total shutdown for a grand finale. It didn't really matter to him. He wasn't thinking right.

He wasn't sure how long it had been between awakenings. Frag, they hadn't really been awakenings so much as brief, shattered flashes of vibrations and images. Like sinking deep into an oil pool, flickers of artificial light glancing over his visor in an opulent dance. It was calm. Soothing. Detached.

The first time- Maybe? Perhaps just the first he could remember- there had been a floor, and a ceiling. He wasn't sure which had been which. Dragging- he had been dragged. Half-carried, light shining up from white halos. Splatters of phosphorescent hot pink trailed ahead, in front, behind. His spatial processing net had been long since slagged, so he couldn't really tell if he was coming or going. Grey, scuffed heels stamped by his servo. Back and forth, stomp stomp stomp. He could feel the stomp. Maybe they'd stomp on his digits.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

_One-two, one-two, one-two-one._

He couldn't remember shutting down again.

Heat. Burning heat. Spinning? Was he spinning? No, the world was pulling sideways- Jazz was on a table. A long, long table, covered in limbs and chassis- The pit? Hot, hot, hot. His dermals were going to fry- get away, get away from the heat.

No, it wasn't that bad. He wanted to recharge. Frag, he was so drained.

_One-two, one-two, one-two-one._

But no, no. Now it was painful. No, he had to _move,_ and fragging _pit_ his body didn't want to, but somehow the universe tipped again and he was- His helm. His helm was bent forwards and he was stuck to the ceiling. Suddenly the ceiling was the wall, and then it was the floor, and then the wall again- In a box, glued by his neck, tumbling- And a stomp-stomp-stomp he could feel in his plating.

_Get up, get up,_ the mech told himself, but his knees wouldn't brace and he kept tipping over. Dragging himself inches at a time with blunt digits.

Suddenly he was being carried again, looking down at heels.

_Different colour,_ he noticed. _Lighter grey, and rusted at the seams._

Neon droplets. One-two, one-two. The stomping was faster. Stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp, _onetwoone, onetwoone._

Boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom.

Did he purge, or was that energon spilling out of his intakes?

A bigger splotch of glow ran away from him, following all the other pretty spots.

Jazz watched it go, saddened. The pink was so pretty. Maybe if he watched, another big one would appear.

Boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom.

Grey floors. Neon spots.

_Spots don't land on the cracks!_

No, wait. They did. There was one.

_Dissapointing._

Then there was a doorway, and he must have shut down for awhile longer.

Falling. Falling out of his berth. No, that would hurt- _Stop it!_

He tried to brace his arms, but they weren't functioning. Someone grabbed him. Lots of servos. Nonononono. Tipping, tipping, laying on his side. Wet and warm spilling out his intakes again. _I'm overcharged._ A faceplate.

Whirling online in a dark room.

For a moment, he was still in a red hallway with flashing sirens and dying mechs.

For that one moment, he was laying on the ground about to offline, and his weapons weren't functioning.

He was going to die if they didn't fragging online _this pit-fragging klik._

Instead of a hail of gunfire, the gears of his shoulder panels spun with a tight, grinding crunch that almost threatened to pop his plating.

Then Jazz snapped into a very quiet reality.

A glance down showed the mech to be sitting ramrod straight up on a flat floor-berth, and a look up revealed the berth to be located within a holding cell.

From the shadows of the adjacent room emerged a slender, quick-build warmech who glared at Jazz in disdain, obvious even through the carefully maintained blankness of his faceplate.

He would have been handsome, maybe even desirable, if that faceplate didn't have such an ugly expression on it.

_Bad guy._

The mech's bared denta rumbled something towards the prisoner, but it seemed the commando's audials were still scrap despite other various repairs that had taken place since the battle.

It looked like he was saying "Let towns haggig gone".

Assessing the context of the situation, Jazz assumed the mech wanted him to lower his arms and maintain a submissive posture.

Like slag. He wouldn't go out of his way to look threatening, but he wasn't going all the way without a fight.

Perhaps looking harmless would be useful though, he thought. K_eep them thinking I'm no threat, get their guard down._

Still sitting, the mech lowered his arms and dipped his helm respectfully.

It seemed that it was the wrong move, however, as the warden stomped closer and repeated the first motions, adding on what appeared to be "Core ha he well gum hithare sand bake ew."

_Bake ew. Make you? Core-ha-he- Or I-E. Or I make you?_

Was he supposed to get up?

Cautiously, he swung his lower body off the side of the mat. Frag, he still only had one leg. Did the guardsmech know...? Was this some cruel joke? _Stay passive._

**"My left pede ain't there."**

Without his audials, his voice hummed a dull vibration into his helm. He had the feeling he was talking too loudly.

The grey mech by the bars was shouting imperceptibly now, gesturing with a stun-sun in his impatience.

Alright, if that's the game they were going to play, he might as well try for a hop.

Slowly, Jazz pushed lead limbs off the ground and forced his struts upright. He wobbled for a moment, stabilizing, and then tipped over onto his side.

His helm hit the ground with a solid motion, and then there was static. _Like being overcharged in a rainstorm,_ his processors supplied.

And now there were hands on his back, gripping the plate between his processors and his protective spinal plating, and like frag he wasn't going to do something about the damned digits being so close to his outer nervous circuits.

Jazz knew how to scrap with a mech, but it as clear that he was at an incredible disadvantage.

All he could really do was buck around and grab for silver ankle joints until an unseen object slammed his faceplates into the floor.

Floor, floor, ceiling, wall, pain in his joints, and a flare of warnings from his HUD before a buzzing electrical shot to the ventral plating and he was falling again.

Then he was on his back again, staring immobilized at a grey ceiling.

_Déja-vu._

A new face appeared in his line of vision, white and red medical grade paint and a plain visor obscuring the lower half.

The figure waved for his attention, raising a glowing pad when his optics confirmed he was paying attention.

_'Stay down'._

Oh. Friendly.

He nodded slightly to acknowledge the order.

His tanks churned a warning.

_What's happening?_ He wanted to ask, but the attendant denied his gestural request to hold the writing tablet.

The neutral lifted an arm to tap at the side of his helm.

_Are you going to fix these?_

It would ordinarily be absurd to expect the enemy to repair self-inflicted damage done in the act of raiding precious resources, but as they had seen fit to keep him alive and relatively safe the yellow-optic'd mech figured he'd see if he could capitalize on the situation.

The medic flinched at the sudden movement and stepped back, but otherwise withheld response.

_'I'm going to check on your internal repairs'_, the pad read. Well well, wasn't this a chatty 'bot.

_Ah yes, I'm doing well. Got a limb missing and I'm deaf as a lump of slag, stuck in a box in the middle of frag-knows-where, but nothing out of the ordinary. How's Tricks?_

He continued the sardonic inner dialogue right up until the medibot began tugging his plating apart at the center seam, pinching sensitive cords between the shifting metal.

_Frag._ He winced in discomfort. _Didn't even buy a mech a drink._

And wait, when had he sustained internal damage? The mech looked down.

Black, carbon-dusted charring.

Huh. _Holy frag._

The medic noticed his patient leaning down and roughly pushed him back down by the forehead.

Thunk-_Fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzxxzzzzzzzzzzxzzzzxzzxz._

Silence.

_I'm probably in shock,_ he noted distantly. The neutral could feel tugging and cutting around his midsection, but it was distant.

_Disassociation,_ his mind supplied. _Removing oneself from the situation._ His current place in reality hadn't sunk in yet, which is why he wasn't glitching out just yet.

It was bound to happen though, he noted matter-of-factly.

He was at the mercy of a powerful enemy in the middle of a brutal war with no hope of rescue. He had information on a notoriously resilient third faction that functioned as a nuisance to both Decepticon and Autobot forces alike, and holy fragging pit he had better thank his lucky fragging stars he'd gone down by the 'bots instead of the 'cons. His life was essentially over at this point, and if he were processing at full capacity he'd be climbing the walls.

It was weirdly calm.

On the surface, at least. There was definitely something hysterical and deadly bubbling up from below. The kind of crazy he'd experienced before during street fights and battle scraps. He could recognize a snapping mind.

_Slag's gonna hit the fan_.

A white servo was waving over his Feild of vision.

He was trying to keep still.

It was distracting.

His own servo lifted without his consent and ripped it off.

_Whoopsie._


	3. Chapter 3

Prowl was in some deep slag.

Not exactly how he would have phrased it, had he said anything. And he wouldn't have sympathetically slapped a commanding officer on the back while doing so, either. But that was what Ironhide had said and done, and to be perfectly honest with himself the head tactician likely couldn't find a more apt way to put it.

Prowl was in some deep slag.

Three joors in to the Prime's return to base, and there had been a complete security breach. He didn't yet have confirmation on whether the perpetrators had been Decepticon raiders or civilian commandos, but as of yet all signs pointed to an incredibly well-planned infiltration.

As many as four possible groups of unnamed, sensor-cloaked mechs had come up through the waste pipes, run through to two of the purposely scattered energon stores, and almost made it Oback out through the incinerators after cutting ignition lines by the time Autobot forces had arrived.

If signs of the breach hadn't been detected during a routine hall scan, he would be tempted to believe that it had been an inside job.

Red alert was in the process of a nervous breakdown, and with five recorded Autobot fatalities, seven Autobot casualties, nine enemy fatalities, and three enemies injured on his servos Ratchet wasn't too far behind a mental break as well.

Prime had quickly been escorted off-base to a secure facility until further notice, leaving Prowl in charge to deal with the fallout.

_"Deep slag", indeed._

"With all due respect, may I say I do not envy your position, sir," one soldier commented.

Unwelcome as the comment may have been, he had been inclined to wearily agree. This would require he interrogate the three still-functioning enemy mechs for information relating to their intentions, as well as initiate a full-base inspection for planted devices and unauthorized monitoring equipment. Then he'd have to delegate the construction of a new comm code to one of the 'bots under Perceptor's command, which would doubtless instigate a vorn-long back and forth over details and redundant security measures. Wheeljack would take the opportunity to upgrade system functions and install preventative tech into the waste systems, which would doubtlessly combust at some point and leave First Aid to fuss over whomever was damaged in the process so that Ratchet could take five kliks to refuel and recharge in between disasters.

Red Alert would develop a secondary nervous glitch.

_First, check with detained mechs to make sure there isn't a greater immediate threat on the way._

_Send tactical to record any new variables introduced._

_Warn construction bots of possible explosions. Send out a memo reminding of the importance of safety gear and the partnering system._

_Make sure medical is as stocked as possible._

_Ask Wheeljack about defensive tech before he forgets to seek proper authorization._

_Have lower ranking mechs move waste receptacle openings and flammable materials further apart._

_Have someone calm the mechs in Security._

_Detail full report and contact the Prime as soon as conditions are_ secure.

Actually, perhaps first he should put emergency first responders on circulating break shifts so that they could rest up. They'd probably be very busy over the next while.

He already had the better part of the safety awareness memo filed on a private comm line by the time he left his office, which was exactly the same moment he received a ping from Ratchet that they were now down to six autobot casualties, two of the detainees had succumbed to injury and were on their way to temporary storage, and Weldwire had just been attacked by the remaining prisoner and was on his way back to medical on a stretcher.

_::Fragger didn't follow security protocol,::_ the CMO grumbled, _::So keep your concern to yourself.::_

_::And the remaining injured?::_ he inquired, ignoring the bot's remark. The mech knew very well he had little sympathy to spare for mechs that maintained such preventable injuries.

_::Stable,::_ The medic huffed back. _::I'm ordering three joors light duty for the lot of them. Follow-up detail and maintenance checks are noted on their rosters. Five security responders and one unlucky maintainence 'bot.::_

_::Noted. Thank you, Ratchet.::_

_::Ratchet out.::_

Prowl filed away all relevant information and continued on his way to the lower holding level of the base.

_::Shiftshade, this is Acting Command Officer Prowl. Report.::_

_::Shiftshade here, sir. Weldwire got slagged pretty bad. Lost a servo and some chest plating, leaked out something awful. He's good now, but we had to stun the prisoner. He's a glitched mech. Haven't been able to get much out of him, but he's uncooperative and resistive to command.::_

Oh, fantastic. The berserker battle-builds were practically useless for informative purposes. Openly violent ones less so.

_::Is he still offline?::_

_::No, sir,::_ replied the warden. :_:He booted up a few kliks ago, and he's not happy to be here. We got the restraints on him and he ain't putting up a fight, but none of my mechs like the look of him.::_

_::Is he displaying threatening or aggressive postures?::_

_::No sir, he ain't even all that big. Nice build, too. But like I said, he's a glitched mech.::_

The tactician vented slowly.

_::I'm approximately five kliks from your location.::_

_::Acknowledged. Good luck, sir. Shiftshade out.::_

The line clicked shut, and Prowl allowed his doorwings to flex slightly under the stress. This joor just seemed to keep getting longer, didn't it?

* * *

It wasn't often Jazz onlined with his chassis sore and his servos chained above his head and wasn't happy about it.

It wasn't often he didn't remember how he went offline either, but it seemed like that was becoming a normal thing now too.

Which usually would have earned an amused smirk, but his wrist joints were wearing down and the constant online-offline pattern was starting to piss him off.

He tapped the back of his helm against the wall behind him, somewhat half-aware of the sharp burst of static that came with the contact.

Fzxtt-fzxtt-fzxtt.

_Boring._

If he wasn't so pleased to be functioning, he'd be despairing of the total inactivity that came with it.

Actually, as the survival programs were settling down, his remaining limbs were starting to twitch and jitter. He needed action, something to react to. There were downsides to be a quick-thinking mech, and the base coding that kept him alive in a fight was certainly doing nothing to keep him sane now.

Somebot had told him- a long while ago, he couldn't quite remember when- that some mecha could sit and keep themselves amused for joors on end, and he was not one of those mecha.

It hadn't really been an issue until now.

War didn't leave a lot of openings for R'n'R.

What would he do after the war?

If there was a Him and an After War.

He'd need a function that didn't interfere with his base coding. Something fast-paced, where he could meet new mecha and learn on the go.

_Something with music._

He had always loved music. He still sang sometimes, quietly, to himself. Little clips of old-Cybertron pop music, bars of instrumental melodies and whatever he couldn't remember the words for.

Vos always had some of the best music, back before it's fall. He had been a much younger mech when the Seekers had joined the war.

He hummed a fragment of a popular Vosnian club tune as it came to him, and he filled in the gaps in his memory with whatever felt nice. Part of him didn't want to accidentally sing too loudly in case somebot heard and came to check on the prisoner, and the another figured that if he was alarming anybody then at least he'd get something better to do.

Besides, the vibrations were soothing to his fizzling receptors.

It didn't last.

Soon enough he was bored again, rebellious processors refusing to latch on to a single line of thought long enough to pass the time until-

_Until what?_ Until he was examined, questioned, terminated and used for spare parts?

Yeah, that was worth the fragging wait.

You'd think if they were planning on terminating him they'd at least have the curtesy to do it in a timely manner.

It was rude, really.

He vented harshly.

_Damned Autobots. Damned war. Damned slagging Primes and their games ._

And right at that moment as if listening for his cue, a fragging Messenger of Primus Himself stepped into optical range.

_Holy slag, mech._

* * *

The tactician had not been expecting the mech in front of him. He was not prepared for a mid-sized, mangled frame of once-was slick and glossy white and grey paint. A mercenary type, maybe. A pit fighter build at the very least. This mech looked more like a bouncer than a berserker. By the dim glow of his yellow optics behind the visor, it was amazing he even had enough energon in his systems to prove a threat. It was difficult to believe that this was a mecha who had joined a team of well-known raiders across the barren landscape to ransack a high-profile military base.

The set of shackles holding the mech's servos to the ceiling seemed almost close to overkill.

And yet...

Prowl could almost sense the air of something dangerous around the mecha, and that was enough to kelp himself on his guard.

It was something in those yellow optics.

The dim honeyed visor in question was looking up expectantly as he was considered, sizing the newcomer in turn.

Prowl frowned, raising his note tablet in his arms. He didn't like this mech, and the sooner he had what he needed was the sooner he could carry on with his work.

"Designation?"

The smaller mech continued to stare, a blank expression on a plain face.

His frown deepened.

"Unknown intruder, state your designation."

Nothing.

Resistive tactics. Prowl hated resistive tactics. They were tiresome, and only really served to slow the process.

"Unknown intruder. You are in Autobot custody. You are being charged with organized and premeditated grand theft, and are responsible for an unknown number of Autobot casualties. You are not in a posi-"

**"Ah're ya almost done?,"** came the unexpected interruption. **"'Cause I ain't got a clue what the frag y're sayin'."**

The 'bot was cute when he was angry. Well. 'Cute'. Maybe the word was closer to 'ridiculously fragging hot'. First thing Jazz knew about the mech, and was that he was ridiculously fragging hot when he was angry.

When he had walked in, jazz hadn't recognized the enforcer-regulation markings, but damn if they weren't fine on a frame like that. All wide, powerful, hips doorwings and chest plates, all in white and shiny black lining.

_Praxian._

Ticked off at him.

Damn. Fine as frag and he couldn't touch.

The mech was chattering off something at him, but slag if he knew what he was saying.

Maybe he should just wait it out, keep listening until tall, steel, and grumpy figured out he hadn't had his audials repaired yet. Did he even know they were scrapped? Probably not.

Primus, if they had a bad comm network. Details like that were important information for a bot in his position.

But nope, his fickle mind rejected the prospect of further inactivity over the temptation of potential action and he was talking before he noticed his mouth was moving.

"... Ah ain't got a clue what the frag y're sayin'."

He was expecting disbelief, distrust, violence. Every mech knew that Autobots were softer than 'Cons, but only a fool would go so far as to claim that they were pacifists. Nowadays, every mech had their own dirty little secrets, and he wasn't in much of a position to be naive. He didn't know what kind of 'bot he was dealing with.

Instead of lashing out, however, the Autobot simply typed something out on his noteboard and held it up for him to see.

_"Have you not been repaired?"_

Huh. Rational. Annoyed, but nothing he couldn't work with.

_Thank the Primes._

"Ah'm functioning. Although Ah assume Ah'm not exactly yer highest priority ah' the mo."

He grinned upwards.

"It seems yer not the best host, eitha."

The pad was taken away, and then returned quickly. Fast typist. Probably spent time filing documents in... Well, a scientist wouldn't be down with him unless they had something nasty planned. A medic would be down first as well, but he'd already fudged that one, hadn't he? Head of security might stop by. Or central command. He'd guess Inquisitor or Psychologist, but those functions required expert social skills and a friendly act this guy wasn't putting on. Maybe Logistics, then.

_"It is socially expected for a guest to knock and introduce themselves before entering the host's facilities. By logical sequence, you are more a bad guest than I a bad host. What is your designation?"_

Ah, so he _was_ central command.

"Ladies first."

Ah, there was a tic. Likely wasn't used to back talk. Commanding officer, then. Fairly high in the ranks, but none too patient with new recruits. Enforcer type obviously, but likely didn't see a reason to repaint when his previous function was terminated. Expects those around him to be up to date on recent events, either nostalgic or very very practical in the use of resources. Probably the latter, Jazz decided. Scuffs on the black paint of his pedes. Not careless, but not the symptom of an overly sentimental piece of work.

Tap tap tap on the screen.

_"My designation is Prowl."_

Prowl. Old designation, picked for undercover and patrol. Probably quiet, patient. He'd bet the mech liked a challenge, thought well under pressure of the moment. If he had credits to gamble...

_Sounds like we've got a Tactical officer in our servos._

That was perfect.

"Ah'm Jazz," he returned pleasantly, nodding his head. The movement pulled on his arms, and he held in a groan at a metal chink that wedged itself between his plates. Frag, his arms were going to pop off at some point.

"How can Ah help you, mah mech?"

* * *

Prowl's struts tightened. That offer hadn't been the offer of a genuinely cooperative mech. This 'Jazz', if it was indeed his designation, wasn't a scared mech looking for an easy out. He was smart, and smart meant that Prowl would have to be very careful with what information he received.

Fortunately, he was also arrogant. Only time and work would tell how much of that was earned and how much was empty.

A thrill of pleased static charged through his processor despite himself. He would deny it, even to himself, but deep down it was.. Something close to enjoyable, to have a criminal to pick apart.

If the fact at hand wasn't that he had good mechs dead to account for, maybe he'd take the time to feel something about it.

But this was wartime, he was on the job, and they had lost time numbers and fuel that could have gone to fighting for the cause.

Now was the time to be harsh and calculating, not amused.

He erased his previous note, and began a new one. This would be moving much faster if the prisoner could actually hear him, but he wasn't about to send in another medic to deal with the issue until he was sure there wouldn't be another incident.

First things first, he had to ensure the safety of the mechs under his watch.

"You could start by telling me whether or not you have compromised my base."

Jazz's grin widened. Shredded and burned from the chassis down, covered in pink and blue and smiling like the the Unmaker Himself, Prowl was finally starting to realize his guard's tentative regard towards what Shiftshade had called a 'Glitched Mech'.

**"Ah'd say it's more a matter of what an' where, Prowler mah mech."**

Prowl's comm pinged rapidly.

_::Sir, we've got a problem on the main deck.::_

_::There's been an explosion on the main deck, sir!::_

_::Requesting orders, sir!::_

Jazz looked to Prowl's comm panel knowingly.

**"Ah see you have some work tah get to."**


End file.
